


but i'm into it? i'm kinda into it.

by Macremae



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Black Velvet Rabbits Era, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Pre-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), Sexual Fantasy, Trans Newton Geiszler, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29850177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: In which the Rabbits play their first ever livestreamed show, and Hermann tunes in. Newt thinks about it. He thinks about it a lot, actually.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	but i'm into it? i'm kinda into it.

**Author's Note:**

> written in approximately 2 hours because everyone on horny pacrim twitter was going nuts for black velvet rabbits newt being a slut. good for him! prompt idea thanks goes to elliot, king of NOT clickbait

It took a not-inconsequential amount of convincing, chipping in, and putting his engineering degree to good use to convince Mollie that livestream gear was an essential business expense, but Newt dares them to argue with the results. Fifty whole people tuned in tonight; that’s, like, half of a hundred! And some of them were probably even watching, too!

Granted, Newt has a slightly ulterior motive for pushing so hard for this. In his last email, Hermann revealed that he had _definitely_ googled The Black Velvet Rabbits when Newt mentioned he was in a band, and were he living in Boston, would be _very_ interested in watching a show. So what if Newt’s kinda-sorta-lovestruck brain immediately decided that Hermann needed to be able to tune in from the UK, and made kind of an ass of himself making that argument to his bandmates. Lots of people have done way stupider things in the name of love. Which, okay, Newt might be in. What can he say? His type is decidedly, “people who’ll give him the time of day”. Hermann sent him honest to God _letters_. He’s a total goner.

The first show with their new equipment goes about the same as usual: Newt jumps around onstage, screeching into the mic in a way that is totally punk rock, and grinding on the microphone. They try out one of their new covers, “Kiwi” off the new Harry Styles album that Newt’s definitely gonna claim only Mollie listens to, and he may or may not have purposely eye-fucked the camera while he sang. Hermann doesn’t fit a single one of the lyrics, but at this point, Newt’s just trying to put down something the guy can pick up. 

He ducks into a corner backstage behind the cheap canvas curtains and tosses his mic on a nearby crate. The thin white tee that already shows most of his fishnet tube top is soaked with sweat, sticking to his chest and stomach. Newt unbuttons his jeans and pulls the hem out to shake the fabric back and forth. The small breeze is amplified by his damp skin, and he lets out a sigh of relief. His face is flushed from exertion, eyeliner smudged and running, and the playboy bunny stamp on his right cheek is definitely a mess. 

Hermann probably has an opinion and a half on that choice of stamps, but to be fair, it fits the theme. Newt is definitely gonna try and find a cool, unaffected way to ask him to spill every single thing he thought about the performance. 

He wonders if Hermann has any particular thoughts on _him_. 

Newt’s, like, aware of what he must have looked like, treating the mic stand (and Milo, and a good bit of Milo’s bass guitar) like his own personal Hitachi Magic Wand, but hey, that’s show business. The Black Velvet Rabbits are not a band that get asked to play weddings. Or birthday parties. Or really anywhere that doesn’t serve copious amounts of alcohol.

He pulls the hem of his shirt up to wipe his face, then leans against the back of the hall. Is Hermann into the bad boy rockstar type? He’s gotta be. Newt’s seen the healed scar of an ear piercing in his right lobe, and you don’t have to be a social psychologist, or a queer historian, to know what _that_ means. 

He pulls his phone from his back pocket and fires off a quick text reply to yesterday’s email: _Enjoy the show_? Newt considers adding a winky face at the end but leaves it out. Sure he just performed borderline fellatio on a microphone, but there’s no need to be _too_ obvious. 

He sighs and shoves his phone back into his pocket. Maybe Hermann will call him later, and Newt can hear that clipped yet bright voice talk about how great he is in real time. He could bring up the grinding, potentially. See if Hermann has any strong opinions on that. If he maybe wants to share them.

 _Ugh_ Newt thinks and rubs the hem of his shirt between his fingers. He is down _bad_.

With a quick glance at the curtain opening, he rucks up his shirt further and pushes a hand down into his jeans (commando because they’re admittedly pretty tight, and rockstars don’t have panty lines). He’s already wet, fingers sliding around his clit easily, and Newt spreads his thighs further to cover it with more of his hand. It sends a hard pulse of arousal through him at the first brush of skin, stomach filling with heat. His knees wobble slightly.

Newt really, _really_ wishes Hermann were here. He begins rubbing up and down in quick, jerky movements, rolling his hips in a slower rhythm. Maybe Hermann would keep those hips still. He’d pin Newt against the boxes of abandoned merch and folding chairs, gripping his thigh tight and circling his clit with those long, elegant fingers. God, Hermann has really nice hands, come to think of it. Big and soft-looking, with little ridges of veins on the back. Honestly, hands like those were made for fingering. Hermann’s probably found that out. Definitely not in a place like this, though.

Or maybe he has. The thought brings a moan to Newt’s lips as his fingers speed up. His clit is so hard it almost _aches_ , and he pictures Hermann perfectly at home in a grungy, dive bar venue with his hair rumpled and sweaty, earring dangling against his pale neck, knowing the perfect spot to rub Newt off before everyone else is finished striking the gear. He’d pull the curtains around them and lean in close, whispering so they don’t get caught, and tell Newt he looked absolutely _filthy_ up there, debauched and practically humping the mic stand, knowing all the while Hermann was watching, waiting for him to stumble offstage into the relief he’d been needing since the third song. 

Newt fists his shirt and brings his hand up to half-cover his mouth, unable to care too much if his bandmates overhear. They’re all in some weird friends with benefits fuck-fest anyway, except Mollie, who carried her black jeans and buzz cut and battered old lanyard from running her high school stage crew with an iron fist, all the way to being the only one of them to have an actual girlfriend. She’s like Newt’s cool older sister, except nobody argues when she chews him out for not warming up. 

She’d like Hermann. They all would, ideally. He could pile into Ernest’s beat up Honda with the rest of them, music blaring, and be too busy groping Newt’s ass with one subtle hand to care. Knowing that the moment they were dropped off back home, he’d be throwing Newt onto Newt’s sixty dollar Goodwill couch and ripping his jeans off, pushing into him and fucking him so hard he’d be hoarse for the next week. 

Newt settles his thumb against the side of his clit and pushes it up into his fingers, slippery with release and moving erratically now, in a way that makes him whimper so loudly against his fist, he assumes nobody gives a fuck anymore. Good for them. God, maybe he _could_ tell Hermann about this, tell him he’d rubbed himself raw thinking of his fingers around Newt’s clit, inside his cunt, stroking his hair and telling him he’d done so, _so_ well, his little _rockstar_ , with the roll of the “r”s that never fails to make Newt think about what that tongue might feel like on his—

He comes with a choked off shout that’s _definitely_ some version of Hermann’s name, inner thighs squeezing around his hand, and settles his fist on his heaving chest. His legs feel like jelly, and he slumps a little further against the wall to draw his hand out of his jeans and wipe it on his shirt. _Christ_. If this is what Hermann can do to him just from a fantasy, Newt thinks if they ever _do_ have sex, he might actually die. 

He finally notices a buzzing in his pocket, and fumbles around to grab his phone and turn it on. It’s Hermann. Newt’s heart launches itself into his throat as he hits the “answer” button.

“Uh, hey Hermann!” he says, trying for casual but wincing at how scratchy his voice sounds. “Enjoy the show?”

Hermann is quiet for an unexpected moment, then clears his throat awkwardly. “Er. Newton. Before you— before you say anything more, I would suggest. Ah. Turning your microphone off.”

Newt’s heart is still in his throat, but his stomach drops ten stories into his shoes. “Huh?”

Hermann begins to answer, but Newt’s body catches up with his brain just in time to scramble over to the stack of crates, grabbing his mic (the little flashing light of which is, yes, on and, oh crap, _green_ ) and switching it off. He feels his face burn like someone threw acid in it. “Did you, uh,” he croaks, bringing the phone back up to his ear and bracing himself for a nightmare ride home, “hear anything weird?”

Hermann, oddly enough, sounds a bit rough himself when he replies, “Y-Yes. I’m terribly sorry for not calling sooner, I was— ah— trying to… trying to hack into the livestream. And turn off the audio.” He clears his throat again. “Yes.”

“Oh my God,” Newt breathes. He wishes the stage lights would all come crashing down on him, one after the other, like a Looney Tunes gag. “I- I am so sorry, Hermann, I didn’t realize it was—”

“No, no,” Hermann interrupts, “I assume not. Well, I’ll just let you go and do whatever it is you—”

“Wait!” Hermann pauses, and Newt rapidly tries to figure out what the fuck he can say to fix this. He comes up with nothing, which of course his mouth chooses to ignore. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Your question?” Hermann asks, voice sounding slightly higher than a few seconds ago. Newt swallows hard.

“Uh, yeah. Did you, y’know. Enjoy the show?”

There’s a long, agonizing silence on Hermann’s end; a whole five seconds of pure nerves. Then, he apparently decides to give Newt a heart attack. “I… yes. In fact, I’d like to call you again later tonight. And tell you. What I enjoyed about it.” His voice dips at least an octave lower. “And exactly how much.”

“Oh! Cool!” Newt squeaks, gripping his phone so hard he feels a cramp coming on. “Okay! Call you later! Or— you call me, I guess—” he cuts himself off before he can ruin things, “bye Hermann!”

Ten seconds after he hits the end call button, the curtain swings open. Mollie, backlight shining behind her like an avenging angel, looks at him like she wants to use his large intestines as cable ties. 

“Newt. Tell your boyfriend he can call you after one. Because until that hour, on the fucking dot, I am going to personally watch you clean every single piece of our equipment as your punishment for making the entire stream audience that _you insisted we needed_ ,” she takes a deep breath, “listen to you jack off. And then I’m going to kill you.”

“But you’ll be done by one?” Newt asks, grinning pleadingly. She sighs and rubs her forehead with her hand.

“Yeah. But if I hear you through the walls past three, you’re gonna clean the car.”

Newt gives her a sweaty thumbs up in response.


End file.
